


Free-man's Blade

by Dusk Peterson (duskpeterson)



Series: The Three Lands [10]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Character(s) of Color, Coming of Age, Courage, Emperors, Ethical Issues, Eunuchs, Friendship, Gen, Genderqueer Character(s), Male Friendship, Master & Servant, Nonbinary Character(s), Original Fiction, Original Trans Character(s) - Freeform, POV Character of Color, Queer Gen, Recovery, Rulers, Trans, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, Transgender, Transphobia, abuse recovery, brown character(s), don't need to read other stories in the series, female character(s) of color, gen - Freeform, male character(s) of color, male-to-nonbinary-to-male character, mtf, original gen, slavefic, trans woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26661262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskpeterson/pseuds/Dusk%20Peterson
Summary: "He slipped out of the Chara's quarters while the ruler remained sleeping. The sun had barely touched the clerestory windows in the main corridor of the palace, but he needed time to escape. To escape, and to think about why he had chosen to remain with the Chara."Free-men are the backbone of Emor: the men who run and protect the empire. But when a young servant finds himself unexpectedly vaulted into manhood, he must decide how he will use his power, and who will pay the price of his decision.Boilerplate warning for all my stories + my rating system.
Relationships: Original Male Character & Original Male Character
Series: The Three Lands [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/15107
Kudos: 1
Collections: Badass women centric stories, Beside(s) Sex, Chains: The Powerfic Archive, Just Friends, Platonic Relationships, Queer Gen Subcollection, Slavefic Central, Trans Stories, Women being awesome, stories of our own: works featuring nonbinary and trans characters





	Free-man's Blade

**Author's Note:**

> _**Author's note:** This is a side story in the Three Lands series. You don't need to read the other stories in the series to understand this one._

He slipped out of the Chara's quarters while the ruler remained sleeping. The sun had barely touched the clerestory windows in the main corridor of the palace, but he needed time to escape. To escape, and to think about why he had chosen to remain with the Chara. 

The tiled corridor was empty, except for a few guards. Even the slave-quarters had not yet been opened for the day. He automatically stiffened as the guards at the locked door to the slave-quarters turned their eyes toward him, but they did nothing except look away. Word had spread by then. 

He found the narrow passage where he knew it lay, close enough to the Chara's quarters that he could return before the Chara rose and noticed he was missing. The passage led to the palace's inner courtyard. There were guards in the courtyard too, but he pretended he could not see them. Instead, he took in a deep breath and held it. Nearly two years had passed since he had last stood under the sky. 

The inner courtyard was a poor sight, compared to what his native land had to offer. No trees at all – just a few shrubs, so severely manicured that one would have thought they were soldiers on parade. But this was his first visit outside in two years, and it was his first visit during the daytime since he was brought to the Chara's palace as a boy. On that occasion, he had been in no mood to appreciate the gift of sunlight. 

He looked up, feeling the faint rays of dawn touch his skin. It was nearly midsummer; the air would be far warmer in his native land at this time of year. At any time of year. But he had willingly turned his back on his past last night, in exchange for— 

In exchange for what? Service to the Chara? That seemed a poor thing, compared to what he was giving up. The chance to be a man? His stomach churned at the thought, though whether from fear or from anticipation, he could not say. 

"Good day to you, Andrew." 

He whipped round. There, three spear-throws from him, against the same wall as himself, stood the Chara. 

The Chara had somehow managed to dress himself, even though he was wearing the intricate formal clothing of the court: silver tunic, black cloak, silver and gold sword, and gold and ruby pendant. The sight of this splendor tied Andrew's tongue for a moment. Not that he had ever been loquacious – not since that day of his arrival in Emor, five years before, when he had realized what his lot would be. 

The Chara took no notice of the fact that Andrew had not spoken – had not even bowed. The ruler said, "It is a beautiful day, is it not? Very warm for this time of year." 

He hesitated, and then, as was his habit, he went straight to the point. With his voice dipped deep, he said, "I apologize, Chara. I meant to tend you when you arose." 

He held his breath in the next moment. If the Chara laughed . . . He could bear anyone's laughter, except for the Chara's. 

The Chara did hitch his breath. But no more than that; the ruler's only reply was, "Oh, I've been up since dawn. It's my usual rising time; you'll have harder hours in the future, I'm sorry to say. Though I would dearly like to have slept in today, after all of last night's excitement." 

The enthronement – that was what the Chara meant. The moment when Lord Peter took on the look of the Chara and became something greater than himself: the embodiment of the law. 

None of which Andrew cared about. Whatever mysterious transformation occurred in the court was of no interest to Andrew; what mattered to him was what had happened afterwards, in the privacy of the Chara's quarters. 

"You forgot this." Smiling, the Chara reached out. In his hand was a dagger with a handsomely carved bone hilt and sheath. 

He came forward slowly, his eye on the free-man's blade. _His_ free-man's blade, given to him the previous night by the Chara. The blade meant more to Andrew than simply the fact he was now entitled to carry a weapon. They both knew that. 

As Andrew took the blade from the Chara's hand – for a second time – the Chara said, "You might as well have slept in; I won't be back to my quarters till suppertime. I have to go see my clerk in a short while; he's preparing me for my first day in judgment. And then there's the Court of Judgment until noonday, and after that I'll eat with my High Lord, which is sure to give me indigestion. And after _that_ , I need to inspect my troops for the first time." 

Of course he did. Yesterday he had been Lord Peter, young heir to the throne. Today he was the Great Chara of Emor and Its Dominions, Judge of the People, Commander of the Armies. He ruled over a vast empire. It was amazing he had been able to find a few moments to speak to his new free-servant. 

Andrew suddenly became acutely aware that he was wasting the Chara's time. Hastily hooking his dagger-sheath to his belt, he bowed and said in his deepest voice, "I will leave you to your duties, Chara. I should—" He grasped for some excuse to leave. "I should shift my quarters." He had already shifted his quarters; the Chara had insisted that Andrew not spend another night in his previous quarters. Instead, Andrew had slept the night in the recently vacated free-servant's room next to the Chara's bedchamber. But "shift my quarters" seemed an adequate reason to depart. 

He did not want to depart. He felt lost at sea, and the Chara was his only anchor. But he knew better than to presume upon their previous acquaintance. 

"Oh, don't worry about that," said the Chara. "Have one of the slave-servants do the work. That's what they're here for." 

The silence lasted far longer than it should have. If he'd possessed any mercy at all, he would have cut the silence short after he recovered his senses. But part of him – the part that remained in his native land – would not allow such a remark to be passed over lightly. 

He saw the Chara's face change. Not to anger; the Chara looked ashamed of himself. "Forgive me," the ruler said quietly. "That was callous of me – not only toward you, but toward the slave-servants who do such heavy work in this palace. I wish I could free them all, but you know that's not possible." 

No, the Empire of Emor depended too much on its slaves' labor. That the Chara had even freed Andrew was a wonder. Andrew gave a second bow, stiffer than the first, and turned away. 

He had almost reached the passage when he heard: "Andrew." 

He turned. The Chara was standing still, making no move in the direction of the private passage back to his bedchamber. The Chara said, "I like your new voice. It suits you." 

o—o—o

It was not as though he held any delusions as to what would happen from this point forth. He had served Peter's father; he knew what it meant to be the Chara. 

There had been days – many days and nights – when Andrew had wondered whether Peter knew what it meant to be the Chara's heir. The Chara To Be seemed to possess very little interest in upholding the dignity of his office. He chatted with his servants. He chatted especially with Andrew, on every possible subject, however mundane. He periodically embraced Andrew, going so far as to give him the occasional kiss on the cheek. And on one glorious occasion – an occasion that Andrew knew he would remember to the end of his life – the Chara had invited Andrew to share his bed, as brothers do. 

As friends do. But even then, Andrew had not been such a fool as to think friendship was possible between a servant and the heir to an empire. That Peter even allowed him to be a conversational companion was glorious beyond compare, and not merely because Andrew admired Peter so much. Peter was Andrew's only companion. The slave-boys despised Andrew, the slave-girls mocked him, and he had denied himself the only remaining alternative for companionship. 

Now the companionship between Andrew and Peter would disappear. There would be no more kisses, no more embraces, no more talks about small matters such as how Andrew's day had gone. Peter had become the embodiment of the law; he had no time now for trivial chitchat. 

And what justification did Andrew have for feeling angry at the loss of this companionship? The Chara had treated Andrew with the utmost generosity. He had freed Andrew and offered Andrew the opportunity to be free-servant to the Chara – the highest service position in the Empire of Emor. He would have let Andrew return to his native land if that was what Andrew had wanted. 

He had given Andrew a free-man's blade. He had given Andrew the chance to be free and to be a man. 

Thinking all this, Andrew approached the two guards to the slave-quarters. He said in his deepest voice, "I wish to gather together my former belongings, if you please." 

The guards exchanged looks. They were too well-disciplined to smirk, but judging from the merry glint in their eyes, he guessed they would have liked to. 

"Of course, my dear," said one of the guards. "Here, let me hold this door open for you. It is too heavy for you." He pulled up the bar of the door and swung the door back in what he pretended to be a courteous fashion. 

Andrew felt his entire body flame with warmth. It required all the strength he had to keep from drawing his blade. This was not his native land; he could not settle this matter with a duel. 

He could not duel every man in the palace who treated him this way. That would mean duelling every man here, save the Chara. 

Instead, Andrew took refuge in the dignity of his new office and pretended not to notice what the guard had said. As he reached the bottom of the steps to the slave-quarters, the door closed behind him. He heard the muffled sound of one of the guards laughing, while the other guard said, "That voice! Can you believe it?" 

He felt like hurtling himself onto the Chara's Sword of Vengeance then. Only the memory of the Chara – the memory of his approval of his free-servant's change – prevented Andrew from giving way to despair. 

He forced himself to move forward, down the dank corridor that was choked with torch-smoke. Perhaps the guards were merely amused by his age, he told himself. He was three years younger than boys usually were when they became men. Peter was sixteen; his voice had begun to change even before his father died the previous winter. For Andrew's voice to change at thirteen, and for it to do so overnight . . . Yes, he supposed there was amusement to be found in that. For other men, at least. 

He had nearly reached the dormitory where the slave-children slept at night. There was nothing in the dormitory for him to fetch; if the Chara had possessed better knowledge of what it meant to be a slave, he would have known that. Andrew's slave-tunic would be passed on to some newly arrived slave; so would his sleeping pallet. He had nothing else that he could count as a belonging. But he had brought downstairs with him the free-man's tunic that he had found awaiting him in the Chara's sitting chamber, delivered overnight. He would change into it here, discard the slave-tunic, and leave behind the life he had endured for five years. 

To his surprise, he heard voices in the children's dormitory. He had expected the slave-children to be at their morning meal by now; the hour was well past dawn. 

A figure suddenly darted through the doorway of the dormitory. He caught hold of it without thinking. The slave looked up, caught sight of him, and quickly lowered her eyes. 

His entire body was aflame again, this time with the guilt of good fortune. Then it occurred to him – like a salvation sent by the gods – that he need not make this more difficult than it had to be. He was the Chara's free-servant. He could write his own rules, to a certain extent. 

So he said, "I'd rather you didn't. I'm still your fellow servant." 

She peered cautiously up, through eyelashes that she had smudged dark with kohl. She was light-skinned, as most of the slave-children were; the palace obtained the majority of its slaves from Emor itself or from the rebellious dominions to the north. "But you're free now, sir." 

"Andrew," he said firmly. "I'm still Andrew. What is occurring in there?" 

Looking confused, she raised her eyes further. She had begun to acquire the firmer lines of her adulthood during the past year; he could well imagine, from what he knew of her, that she mourned the loss of the softness of her childhood. But she was not the sort to engage in self-pity; instead, she said in a cautiously hopeful manner, "You won't report on us?" 

"Not unless it's something the Chara would need to know. It's just another fight, is it?" He let her loose from where he still held her in his grip. 

She sighed in that dramatic fashion she had. "It's Marcus and Donatus. They're _always_ fighting." 

He nodded, thinking rapidly. If news of the fight reached the Chara, it would complicate what was already a very complicated day for the newly enthroned ruler. By law, every slave in the palace belonged to the Chara, no matter who the slave's official master was. The Chara being who he was, he would be concerned by any disturbance of the peace between his slave-servants. 

"Come," said Andrew, and he tucked Loretta's hand into his own. She looked pleased. It occurred to him, as he walked forward, that she had shown no surprise at his change in voice. But of course she would not. 

The scene was fully as bad as Andrew had feared. The two boys had stripped themselves down to their breechcloths and were circling around each other, fists at the ready. The rest of the slave-children were gathered round to watch the fight; many of the boys were calling encouraging remarks to the fighters. They all knew that the palace slave-keeper slept late after festival nights, as did most of the rest of the palace residents; the slave-children were in no danger of being disturbed by authorities. 

"That's enough!" 

Andrew was surprised at how forceful his voice sounded. He had practiced whenever he was alone, hoping beyond hope that he would have the opportunity one day to make this transformation. But practicing in hoarse whispers was a very different thing from shouting over a bevy of excited babblings. The room fell silent at once. Everyone looked his way. 

Which left him in charge, with no idea what to do. What did one do in these situations? He'd been eight years old the last time he tried to take charge of anyone; that was on the day that the Emorians had invaded his land, and he had lost his freedom. 

He should just proceed in a rational manner, he decided. This was a fight; he didn't even need to know what it was about to know the cause. Marcus and Donatus never listened to each other. So he must make them listen to each other. 

He strode forward, still holding Loretta's hand. She was making some sort of complicated sign with her loose hand to her friends – easily distinguishable from the other slaves because of the bright colors and face-paint they wore. Her friends emitted a collective "Oo," and then fell silent like everyone else. 

When he reached the two fighters, he released Loretta and turned to face Marcus. "Tell me what happened," he said. 

Marcus looked more puzzled than amused by Andrew's transformation. "He stepped on my pallet again, sir. He always steps on my pallet; I've told him not to a thousand times—" 

"He puts his pallet in the way of everyone—!" 

Andrew put up his hand. Both boys fell silent. Andrew was beginning to enjoy this; it was the most power he'd possessed in years. He said, "One boy, one speaker. Finish what you were saying, Marcus." 

Marcus finished his speech. "Now you," said Andrew, and Donatus burst out with his grievance. Marcus tried to interrupt three times; Andrew stopped him each time. 

"Now you can give your counter-witness," he told Marcus when Donatus had finished. It was a court term he had picked up from the Chara To Be, and this did feel a bit like the court, with witness and counter-witness. Should he make the final judgment? No, that wouldn't be proper; he wasn't a judge. But already the misunderstanding that had happened was becoming clearer, with every word the boys spoke; he could see from their expressions that they realized this too. 

"Probably should have put my pallet further back," mumbled Marcus. 

Donatus shrugged. "I should have reminded you that it was in the way. We haven't talked about this in weeks." 

"And none of this was worth a fight, was it?" suggested Andrew, his arms folded as he addressed the boys. "You won't fight again?" 

They shuffled their feet a bit, but eventually he elicited from them a faint chorus of "Yes, sir." 

"Andrew," he corrected. "My name hasn't changed." He scooped his free-man's tunic off the floor, where he had dropped it. He wasn't going to risk laughter by changing in front of the others here; he would change once he returned to the Chara's quarters. "If you have a disagreement in the future, ask someone else to help you settle matters. I'll help, if I'm not busy serving the Chara. But no fists. You don't want the Chara coming down here to sort out your quarrels." 

The boys responded with much more vigorous agreement this time. Nobody in the entire Empire of Emor wanted to see the Chara in his moments of embodying the law. Andrew had so far mercifully escaped the fate of witnessing his ruler wear the look of the Chara. 

Loretta followed Andrew out of the dormitory, skipping alongside him. "That was wonderful!" she cried in her high voice. "What you did – it was so manful!" 

He stopped dead and turned to look at her. Her expression grew uncertain, as though she was afraid she had said the wrong thing. 

He hesitated. He had a question in his mind, one he had wanted to ask for a long time. The problem was how to phrase the question without being brutal. 

The Chara had taken away Andrew's breath the previous night by announcing that he planned to demolish the traditional punishment for palace slaves who tried to run away or who committed other acts of high disobedience. That announcement had meant almost as much to Andrew as the proclamation of emancipation that the Chara had handed him. 

Andrew was willing to wager that the Chara would win the loyalty of every slave in the palace when the news broke. Even so, the past could not be changed. Nobody liked to be reminded of the most painful day of their past. 

She was waiting for him to speak, biting her lip. She was the same age as he was, but of course girls came of age earlier than boys did. She had already taken on the duties of womanhood, earlier that year. Andrew didn't like to ask whether she was being forced to carry out those duties in her master's bed. The High Lord had an eye for pretty slaves, but Loretta was hopelessly in love with Donatus. So far, Donatus had succeeded in feigning indifference, though Andrew had caught sight of him eyeing Loretta frequently, as if testing in his mind a possibility he had not previously considered. 

Andrew phrased his question with great care. "After you were changed . . . did you mind? Not what they did to you, but what came after. Did you mind that you were forced to act like a girl?" 

She was slow in responding. "I'm not a woman. I'm a half-man. I'm half man, half woman." 

So the Emorian law on eunuchs stated, but it had never occurred to Andrew that she might actually believe this. The gods' law of his own native land declared that the gods had divided mankind into males and females. To Andrew, it was quite obvious that Loretta was a boy forced to pretend she was a girl. He had even tussled in his mind over whether it was proper for him to think of her as a "her." But the one time he had addressed Loretta by her real name, Loretto, tears had pearled against her lashes. Andrew couldn't stand it when people cried. And it had seemed only right to him that he should respect how she wished to be addressed, since she did the same for him. 

Now she said, "I hated how much it hurt, when they cut me. But the rest . . . It's what I am. It's what I've always been. The only difference is, nobody laughs at me any more for being a girlish boy." 

He stared at her, disconcerted. His expression must have grown cold, as it often did at moments when he didn't intend it, for she hugged her chest, as though expecting him to hit her. 

It appeared, though, that he had touched something fragile within her spirit, for she burst out, "You've always said you're a boy, and now you're talking like a man. If a eunuch can be a man in his spirit, why can't a boy be a eunuch in her spirit?" 

This was much too deep for Andrew to grasp. He began to protest that their cases weren't the same at all. He was still what he'd been when the gods made him. Nothing that the council lord who had first owned him had done to him – not the gelding, not the beatings – could change the fact that Andrew was male. By contrast, Loretta had been twisted by her decision to comply with her master's orders to act like a girl. Andrew could sympathize with why she had obeyed orders; that didn't change the fact that she was male. 

But something stopped his tongue – a feeling he recognized from his early childhood, before he became a slave. 

He was in the presence of a mystery. A mystery he did not yet understand, though maybe, as he grew older, he would come to understand it. If there was any chance that this mystery was sacred in nature – that Loretta's perception of herself as someone halfway between man and woman was as much a deed of the gods as his own birthright to be a man – then it would be foolish for him to speak out now, before he understood. 

So he simply nodded – not in agreement, but as an indication that he had heard her and would think about what she said. Her arms loosened from her chest, and for a moment it seemed as though her hand would reach out to him. But his expression must not have been encouraging, for instead she turned and fled back to the safety of the coterie of half-men. 

Andrew, who had long ago denied himself that companionship, turned away. There was no companionship left for him with the Chara, but at least he had served the Chara well today. He had brought peace— 

And then it hit him, so hard that he could only groan and lean his head against his forearm. 

A little while ago, he had met Loretta running from the dormitory – running to fetch help from the older slaves to stop the fight, he knew. It was what she did. It was what all the half-men did and what all the slave-girls did. They stopped fights; they tried to bring peace among the slave-boys. 

Who never brought peace themselves. That was an act reserved for half-men and girls. 

o—o—o

The only sound in the Chara's sitting chamber was the crackle of fire and the occasional whisper of a page being turned. It was late at night now – so late that even the council lords had gone to bed. The night had grown chilly, as it always did for Andrew, no matter what the time of year in Emor. He had little knowledge of medical matters; he could only assume that he had fewer defenses against the cold because he had the dark skin of a southerner. At least now his comfort would not be entirely at the mercy of his light-skinned Emorian superiors. He was the Chara's free-servant; he had the right to decide to build a fire, provided that the Chara did not object. 

The Chara showed no sign of noticing that Andrew was there. Andrew had carefully arranged for the Chara's favorite foods to be served at supper, but the Chara had not returned then – only a page, stating that the Chara would be supping with the subcommanders of his three armies. The Chara had finally returned a short while ago, as sober as he always was after long suppers, and had immediately begun to read the tall stack of documents that he had brought back with him. He was sitting upright on his reclining couch now, his gaze fixed to the documents in his lap. Very likely he would take no notice of Andrew for the remainder of their time before bed. 

Andrew felt the absence of the Chara's companionship like a blow against the body. He and the Chara had spent so many of their boyhood evenings talking to each other, exchanging news of their respective days. It was a violation of rank-rules that Lord Peter had seemed to delight in. But now that Lord Peter had become the Chara, he had set aside the follies of youth. 

It was just as well, Andrew reminded himself. Above all, he mustn't let slip the secret of what he had done that day. If the Chara learned that Andrew had been urging peace like any shrill-voiced woman, even he would not be able to hold back his amusement. Andrew could imagine the smile on the Chara's face as he learned that his free-servant was acting like the other half-men— 

"What did you do today?" 

Andrew jumped in place; he almost spilled the bowl of wall-vine raisins that he was placing on the table next to the reclining couch. The Chara's gaze remained on the papers. 

"Chara?" His voice was far too high; he tried again. "Did you ask something?" 

"I was wondering what you did today. You usually mention that." 

Still the Chara did not look up. As for Andrew, he felt his chest ache. Was this merely a test by the Chara, to see whether Andrew would break their new boundaries of propriety? Or did the Chara really want to know how his free-servant had passed his day? 

And if he wanted to know, what should Andrew say? "I changed into a free-man's tunic. I spent much too long staring at my free-man's blade, filled with gratitude for what you had given me. Then I tidied your chambers and arranged for your supper, but you did not come back to me. So I tidied some more, too sick to my stomach to be able to eat my meat." 

He couldn't report that. But it would be far worse to report what he had done early that morning. 

"Andrew?" The Chara raised his gaze. He had grey eyes, like an Emorian sky – not the penetrating eyes of his father, but instead eyes that encouraged a reply. 

A truthful reply. Andrew had never lied to the Chara – it was part of what had bound them together. Yet that binding was now broken. . . . 

"Is something wrong, Andrew?" Frowning, the Chara set aside the papers. "Did someone hurt you?" 

And that was why Andrew could never, ever lie to the Chara. Because even now, absorbed in all his high duties, the man who had once been Andrew's companion was prepared to defend Andrew, if Andrew had been harmed. 

He had to clear his throat before he could begin. "No, Chara. I am well. I . . . undertook this morning to stop a fight between two of your slave-servants. To bring peace." 

The expression began slowly, just at the edges of the Chara's mouth. Then it grew and grew. Andrew had to close his eyes. The pain was too great. 

He felt the Chara's hands on his arms, tight. He opened his eyes. The Chara was standing before him, smiling. 

"I can't thank you enough, Andrew." The Chara's voice was light. "It was one of the things that worried me most: whether I would be able to keep control of my servants. To have you volunteer to keep the peace in my place . . . Well, it's as if I've unexpectedly found an ambassador. I can't think of a man who's better suited for such work." 

Andrew could not have spoken to save his life; his throat was as tight as though he were being strangled. The Chara's smile faded; he stepped back and sat down again. He looked over at the documents beside him on the couch but did not pick them up. "So," he said. "Is that all that happened?" 

He was not looking in Andrew's direction any more. And suddenly, as though the gods had spoken in his ear, Andrew knew why. He wondered why it had not occurred to him before. 

He had become a man last night, and with his manhood had come freedom. Lord Peter had also become a man last night, but for him, freedom had receded. He no longer held the freedom he had possessed as a boy, to spend his day with chosen companions. He could not even be sure whether the slave who had once been his companion would wish to remain so, now that the slave was free. 

Andrew had always acted on impulse, where the Chara To Be was concerned. Now he did so again with the Chara, grabbing the bowl of raisins off the table and pushing aside the documents on the couch. 

Then he sat down where the documents had been, beside the Chara. He offered Peter the bowl. "I'll tell you, Chara," he said, "if you'll let me share your meal." 

With a crow of delight, Peter reached over, hugged Andrew with one arm, and planted a kiss on his cheek. Then, handing over a handful of raisins, the ruler of the Empire of Emor listened as Andrew began to speak of his puzzlement over what it meant to be a free-man.

**Author's Note:**

> [Publication history](http://duskpeterson.com/cvhep.htm#freemansblade).
> 
> This story was originally published at [duskpeterson.com](http://duskpeterson.com). The story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Copyright © 2019, 2020 Dusk Peterson. Permission is granted for fanworks inspired by this story. Please credit Dusk Peterson and duskpeterson.com for the original story.


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